


Walk or Ride

by mayyouwalk



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (a kinda happy ending?), Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, it's happy but you know it's also the MAFIA so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 21:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10705524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayyouwalk/pseuds/mayyouwalk
Summary: "Rule number one, don’t blow your fucking head off.”





	Walk or Ride

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a song of the same name by The Ditty Bops. Shameless Mobster AU. Written because one day I looked up the Ukrainian mob, and wouldn'tcha know it, they had a base in Chicago. 10,000 words later, this.

Mickey’s been in jail three times, shot twice, and knifed once (low, right in his gut, coming around a corner too fast and didn't check first - stupid but he lived). Most days he likes to pretend he’s invincible until he thinks about his last partner, a scruffy guy who went by Sully, getting shot in the head opening the back of a truck one day.

It had been a sunny day. Tuesday. Sully had been telling him about a good breakfast place one second, then was laying in a pool of blood the next, half his brains on Mickey’s shirt. Mickey was quick enough to put two bullets in the shooter’s chest (ItaIian, fucking wops) and lucky enough that the guy hadn't been wearing a vest. He knows he won't get lucky every day, and one day his head’ll get blown back while he’s eating lunch or watching a movie or taking a dump. He figures that's how pretty much how everyone in their line of work goes out, sooner or later: unimpressive, shitting themselves.

^^^

“Jesus, Mands, if you called me here just to watch you suck face with your new boyfriend, I’m gonna punch you in the tit,” Mickey says, lip curling.

The guy, at least, has the grace to look embarrassed when Mandy untangles herself from where she’s draped over him on the couch.

“Shut up, assface,” Mandy says, glaring at him. “Ian’s here for you, not me. Unfortunately.”

“Who?

“Ian.” The guy stands up and extends a hand. When Mickey doesn't move to take it, he lowers it with a smirk. “Gallagher.”

Mandy crosses her legs, still looking the guy up and down, leering. Mickey rolls his eyes because c’mon. Yeah, the guy’s all long limbs, slicked back hair, big hands, and...and yeah, ok, Mickey totally gets it, he does, but god, did she have to be so obvious about it? Geez.

“Gallagher? You one of Frank’s?” Mickey turns away, not bothering to shrug off his coat when he goes into the kitchen to get a beer. He’s not staying long.

“Sort of. Long story.” Gallagher smiles at him, all bright and eager, and Mickey sneers even as his stomach does a weird backwards flip. He’s probably just hungry.

“You’ll be training him,” Jamie says, stepping out of his room and buttoning his shirt cuffs. Mickey watches the small motion as dread seeps into his gut. “Terry’s orders.”

“Training? Kid’s a fucking newbie?” Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose. His day just got a whole lot worse and it’s not even noon.

“I’m a quick study,” Gallagher says, still smiling a little lopsidedly, and Mickey suppresses the urge to throttle him.

Jamie claps him on the back. “Have fun, man.”

^^^

“Hey, it’s not like that with your sister.”

Two feet out the door and Mickey can already tell Gallagher’s one of those chatty assholes. Fuckin’ perfect.

“Huh?”

“With Mandy,” Gallagher says, jogging a little to keep up with Mickey’s quick strides. “We’re not, I mean. She’s great, but...you know. Not my type.”

“Whatever.” Like Mickey gives a shit if the guy’s sticking it in his sister or not. Just because he doesn't want front row seats to that shit doesn't mean he’s gonna fucking vet the guy. “Listen.” Mickey stops him with a hand on his chest. “You got any experience with this kind of stuff?”

“Got busted for car theft,” Gallagher says. “Robbery.”

“Convicted?”

“Nah.” Gallagher smirks.

Mickey nods. Good. He’d rather work with the guys who haven’t done time - you might toughen up in the joint but you also tended to make enemies. “Ever used a gun?" 

“Mickey,” Gallagher curls a hand around Mickey’s wrist and shit, he was still pressing on the kid’s chest, hadn’t even realized it. He pulls back and Gallagher’s fingers slip away. “I grew up two streets over from you. I’m not some trust fund baby you’re showing the seedy underbelly of Chicago to, okay? I know what you and your boys do. I’m just looking to make some extra cash for a while.”

“Didn’t answer my question, man.”

Gallagher ducks his head, laughing a little. “Yeah, I’ve used a gun. Better with a knife though, and I can throw a punch. Can take one, too.”

Mickey rubs his thumb over his bottom lip. “Alright, Gallagher.” He checks that the street is empty before reaching to his back where his SIG is tucked in his belt. It’s small, a P290, nothing fancy, but it gets the job done. He steps closer and holds it out to Ian, handle first. “Trial basis. Rule number one, don’t blow your fucking head off.”

Gallagher just grins, wide and innocent, and takes the gun.

^^^

Gallagher’s sighed for the fifth time in as many minutes when Mickey finally caves.

“Dude, _what_?”

The kid folds his arms, glaring out the front windshield. “Nothing.”

“You look like I just told you you couldn’t have any ice cream later or something.”

Gallagher perks up. “ _Can_ we get ice cream later?”

It takes Mickey a second to realize he’s joking. Of course he’s joking. _Is_ he joking? Mickey looks over and Gallagher raises an eyebrow at him. He’s joking. Jesus, this kid.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Maybe, if you stop fucking pouting. What’s your problem?”

Gallagher sighs again and Mickey grinds his teeth. “I just didn't think it’d be so…”

“So…”

“Boring!” Gallagher exclaims, hand gesturing. “We’re literally just staring at a warehouse, and we’ve been staring at a warehouse for the past hour, and nothing’s happened at the fucking warehouse we’ve been staring at.”

“You expected a little more _Good Fellas_ action, huh?”

Gallagher rolls his eyes, but doesn't correct him. Mickey smirks. It’s not unexpected, and Mickey’d be lying if he said he wasn’t the same way the first time his dad threw him in a car with Iggy - excited, itching to use the brand new shiny gun at his hip.

“Look man, I can't let you cook the main course until I see you can wash the dishes properly, right? So just sit tight, do good this week, and then we’ll see.”

Next to him Gallagher grumbles, slouches in his seat. “Can you at least tell me what I’m supposed to be looking for?”

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Mickey says.

Fifteen minutes later, there are flashes in the upper windows and several loud pops in the air. Gallagher jumps, jerks his head to look at Mickey, who just shifts the car into drive and waits.

Tony and Jaime come strolling out a minute later and hop in the backseat.

“Gallagher,” Tony says, leaning forward to clap Gallagher on the shoulder. “Thanks for the pickup.”

“Any trouble?” Mickey glances at them in the rearview as he eases back out onto the main road.

“Nah.” Jaime’s checking his gun. “Called the cleaner, should be all set.”

“Takeout for 2,” Tony says, grinning.

Mickey just grunts, cuts his eyes over to Gallagher. He’s hiding it well, but Mickey can see the tightness in his jaw, how he’s sitting just a little straighter, and his eyes are just a little wider.

During the drive Mickey glances over at him a few more times, but Gallagher keeps his eyes on the windshield or out his own window. Only once did he catch Mickey’s gaze, his bright green eyes catching the light, searing into Mickey’s.

Gallagher doesn’t really relax again until they drop Tony and Jaime off at the house, and Mickey reaches over to grab his forearm when he starts to get out as well.

“You’re with me, we got one more errand to run,” Mickey says, and Gallagher looks back at him, shutting the door. “Shouldn’t take long.”

They’re a few blocks away when Gallagher clears his throat and finally speaks.

“Uh, takeout?”

Mickey shoots him a grin. “Code. You order for however many people, so the cleaner knows the body count.”

“And who’s the cleaner?”

“C’mon, I gotta save some surprises. It’s only your first day. Patience, grasshopper, or whatever the fuck.”

When Mickey pulls into the Dairy Queen parking lot five minutes later, Gallagher actually throws back his head and laughs

^^^

Mickey’s explaining the shipment delivery to Tony for the umpteenth time like the guy’s an idiot, which he is, which most of the people Mickey works with are. He breaks everything down and divides it for Tony like Mickey’s his own personal fucking calculator, and then tells Tony he’d be a lot fucking smarter if he spent less time getting his brains sucked out his dick by Svetlana’s girls, and thumbs the end call button.

Gallagher’s giving him a funny look after he hangs up, so Mickey raises an eyebrow at him.

“You’re pretty smart, you know that?” Gallagher says, voice tilting up at the end, like he’s imparting a secret.

Mickey snorts. “Smart, fuck off. Never even finished high school.”

Gallagher smirks. “I’m not saying I’d hire you to write a term paper for me, but you’re good at like-” Ian gestures, hand circling meant to encompass them, the idling car they’re in, the job and the whole damn city, maybe. “-all of this.”

“Whatever, man.” Mickey digs out his last cigarette, rolling down the window to toss out the empty pack.

“No really,” Gallagher twists in his seat to face him, giving Mickey wide, imploring eyes that should be on the docks counting boxes. It makes Mickey’s hands itch to punch him. “You’re good with numbers. 

“Costs more to not know all that shit,” Mickey passes Gallagher the cigarette. Their fingers brush for the barest of moments. “When the difference between a eightball and a teener can get your head blown off, you get good at math real quick.”

Gallagher huffs, turning back to face the windshield. “Still impressive.”

“Yeah? Could you be less impressed and more silent? Cuz just saying, that’d be really great.”

Mickey fiddles with the radio, trying to get something other than static in this piece of shit rust bucket, so he doesn't see Gallagher lean close until the bastard is blowing a mouthful of smoke in his face.

“What the fuck?” Mickey’s eyes are watering but he can still see Gallagher finishing the last of his cigarette and flicking it out the window. He coughs. “Not fucking cool, asshat.”

Gallagher glances at him, eyebrows raised and face innocent. “What? I’m sorry, I was just over here following instructions and being quiet.”

Mickey feels his lips twitch up in what might have been a smile if it got that far. He forces a scowl instead. “Jesus, are you always this lame?”

Gallagher, the shithead, just nods seriously. “It takes a lot of practice.”

“Count the fucking boxes, Gallagher.”

^^^

"Got a lot of debt," Gallagher says, right around week three. He’s chewing on a hangnail, but his eyes don't stop moving, darting back and forth between the buildings across the way and the cross-street. "Frank fucking tanked all our credit, got cards in our names and maxed ‘em out. And my brother, Lip, he's the first one of us - maybe the only one of us - to actually finish high school and get into a college. MIT, fucking genius. Had to take out a bunch of student loans to do it though. Fi's trying to open up her own business, and keep the the lights on at the house and shit. I moved out so they’d have one less mouth to feed, but anything that doesn’t go to rent goes into the squirrel fund, so..."

Mickey wants to tell him to shut the fuck up, that he doesn't care about Ian's brothers or sisters or great uncle twice removed. Mickey wants to tell him that he shouldn't just blurt out information like that unless he's desperate to paint a big old target on his back for anyone listening. Mickey wants to rip Ian's fingers away from his mouth and push his own mouth there instead, pressing and biting until they both taste blood.

Mickey wants to stop having thoughts like that last one, the ones that keep flashing through his head lately, more and more frequently.

He squints at the car pulling into the lot across from them and checks for the comforting weight of his Glock. Nods to Ian and says, "We're up."

^^^

"Ian!! Oh baby, look at you!"

On the sidewalk next to him, Ian stumbles, freezes.

"The fuck?" Mickey turns.

The blonde on the corner is jogging toward them, arms out wide with a smile splitting her face in two.

Without really thinking about it, Mickey half steps in front of Ian, who still hasn't turned around, back rigid and eyes fixed on a point in the distance.

"Ey, lady, look, we don't have any money for you. Why don't you just go back to -" Mickey starts, but the blonde is already dodging around him, converse squeaking as she wheels in front of Ian and throws her arms around him.

"Oh Ian! I can't believe how big you are!"

Mickey can see Ian shudder, his shoulders going up and down on a shaky breath.

"Let me look at you!" she pulls back, her hands resting on Ian's shoulders. "You’re beautiful, baby. Oh I’m so happy I found you!"

"Lady, what the fuck," Mickey says, shock fading and actually able to move again. He grabs her forearm roughly and pulls her back a little.

A hand lands on his other wrist, fingers gentle; Mickey glances down at pale freckled skin. "It's ok, Mick. I got this."

"Is this your boyfriend?" The blonde beams at Mickey and Mickey feels like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over his head. The fingers on his wrist vanish.

"Monica, get out of here," Ian growls, finally moving again. He shoulders his way between both her and Mickey, long legs striding fast down the sidewalk. Mickey curses, goes to follow, falling into step on Ian's right.

Monica skips after them. "I just got back last night, I've been looking for you-"

Ian laughs, but the sound is all twisted, ugly. "Where'd you look? Fucking meth dens?"

"Fiona changed the locks," Monica says. "I thought maybe I could stay with you-"

"Not going to happen," Ian says, looking straight ahead again.

"Oh please, Ian? I won't -"

"Look just fuck off!" Ian shouts, and Mickey wouldn't admit it with his hand on the bible, but he jumps, a little. He doesn't think he's ever heard Ian even raise his voice.

Monica's skipping steps falter, and she stutters to a stop.

"Alright, I'll-I’ll be by the house later to see everyone!" Monica calls after them.

"No you won't!" Ian calls back over his shoulder.

"Who the fuck was that crazy bitch?" Mickey asks, when Ian doesn't look ready to volunteer any information.

Ian clenches his jaw. "My mom."

"She a fucking meth head?"

"Bipolar. And yeah, also a fucking meth head. Coke. E. Molly. She's not exactly picky."

Chaos junkie, Mickey thinks. He glances at Ian just in time to catch the end of a pained expression on his face. He looks even younger like that, raw hurt out in the open, before it smoothed over in a mask of indifference:

When Mickey remembers what else she said, he can't help himself.

"What was all that boyfriend crap?" he asks.

"Nothin'." Ian speeds up.

"Sure as shit didn't sound like nothing." Mickey grabs his shoulder, not expecting Ian to spin around and shove him.

"Fucking drop it," Ian snaps.

"The fuck, man-"

“Mickey, just leave it!”

“I’m just fucking asking you a question-”

"You really need me to say it?” Ian snarls, looking down at Mickey. "You want me to say it to your face so you have an excuse to beat the shit out of me, huh? Call me a faggot?"

He goes to shove Mickey in the chest again and Mickey pushes him back, one hand fisted in the front of his shirt, keeping him at arm's length.

"Ain't like that," he mutters, looking anywhere but Ian's face, his stormy eyes. "I don't give a shit, man."

"Coulda fooled me," Ian spits out, and Mickey winces.

"Not gonna fucking deck you, asshole." Mickey lets him go with a last light shove away, but Ian steps back into his space almost immediately, jaw set and stubborn, daring Mickey to punch him. "We got a job to do, in case you forgot. Unless you gotta go deal with that shit." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, back the way they came.

Ian stares at him hard for a second before he huffs and his whole body seems to sag. "She's never here very long, just blows in long enough to stir shit up then takes off again. Hurricane Monica."

"Jesus."

"Yeah." Ian takes a step back, running a hand through his hair, and Mickey could punch himself for immediately missing his warmth, Ian's breath on his face. Fuck.

He reaches into his front pocket and pulls out a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes, tapping one out.

“Bipolar, huh?” Mickey snicks on the lighter and works his mouth around the end until the tip catches. “That’s like, what, depressed shit?”

“Manic depressive,” Ian recites, tonelessly. Without thinking, Mickey holds out the half-smoked cigarette to Ian, who takes it with a grateful nod, taking a drag and exhaling smoke through his nose before he continues. “Mood swings. Really high highs and low lows.”

“That was a high high, then?”

Ian snorts, half smile flickering across his face as he hands the cigarette back to Mickey. “Yeah. Lows are more like...not getting out of bed for a week, suicidal thoughts, that sort of thing. At least when it’s not medicated.”

Ian takes a deep breath, and his lips thin out as he looks sideways at Mickey. Suddenly, Mickey remembers again that they’re in the middle of a fucking job, probably late for this meetup, and he’s here playing twenty questions with Gallagher like they’re on a first date or some shit. Ian’s looking at him like he wants to tell Mickey more, now, and Mickey’s almost desperate that he doesn’t.

“Look, man,” Mickey starts. “You don’t have to -”

“I have it too,” Ian says quickly, glancing down, then up again to Mickey’s face, and Mickey can't meet his gaze. He flicks end of his cigarette away and seriously considers another one.

“I have it under control, I’m not…” Ian scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m not her. I just figured...thought maybe you should know.”

“Well, now I fucking know.” Mickey clears his throat. “We gonna talk about our periods next, really complete sharing time here?”

Ian laughs outright this time, small but honest. “Thought maybe we could get our nails done after that?”

“Hair too?”

“Bet you’d look good with a perm.”

Mickey grins. “Yeah, fuck you too. C’mon, we’re late.”

^^^

Mickey’s never seen Mandy smile as much as she does when Ian’s around. 

“I didn’t know anyone could burn water, Mands,” Ian teases, laughing when Mandy punches him in the shoulder and calls him an ass. Ian just leans over, smacks a kiss on her temple, and takes over pasta making duties. “Hey, Mickey! You good with ziti for dinner?”

“Long as there’s sauce,” Mickey grunts, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs. Ian gives him a thumbs up, jerking his chin at a smaller pot of red gravy bubbling on the stove.

There’s tinny music coming from Mandy’s phone on the counter, and he watches Ian suddenly abandon stirring to pull Mandy into a dance in the middle of their kitchen, ignoring her protests.

“ _They say we won’t make it far if we don’t drive there in a car,_ ” Ian croons, hopping around and swaying Mandy with one hand on her waist and the other tangled with hers midair. “ _But we’ll be there with time to spare and find our own way home!_ ”

Mandy giggles, letting Ian spin her. She doesn’t even put up a fight when he dips her as the song ends, and they hold the pose until the next song starts up, grinning like idiots at each other.

“If this is you giving my sister cooking lessons, they’re off to a shit start,” Mickey deadpans. Mandy sticks her tongue out at him but Ian just laughs, righting Mandy and holding out a hand to Mickey.

“What, you want a whirl too?”

“I’d rather stick my head in that pot.”

Ian’s grin gets wider. “Suit yourself.” He turns suddenly, swooping Mandy up and twirling her midair. Mandy shrieks, caught off guard, kicks at Ian’s shins until he puts her back down.

The pasta is overdone and soggy when they finally get around to eating it, but Mickey finds he doesn’t mind much.

^^^

"Why the mall?" Ian asks. he's chewing on the straw of the slurpie Mickey bought him (what, ok, he'd seen Ian staring at them, a pitiful expression on his face, a sob story on his lips about how they were never allowed to have them as kids, and Mickey'd had five bucks burning a hole in his pocket anyway, so what, get off his back) and Mickey thinks he's gonna go a little insane with this kid's oral fixation. "I mean, why aren't we meeting in an alley or something? Or like, a junkyard?"

"Busy places are better," Mickey says.  "Bright lights, more witnesses." Mickey glances sideways at Ian. "Plus no one ever gets shot sucking down a slushie."

"It's a slurpie."

"Whatever."

They make it all the way down to the front of Macy’s and hover outside it, still a few minutes early. Ian staring at the kiosk in front of them like the tiny yapping and flipping dog robots are the most interesting things in the world. The lack of small talk is companionable, and more than fine with Mickey, but then of course Ian has to go and ruin it.

"Hey, listen," Ian says. "I just wanted to say thanks."

"What the fuck for?"

Ian shrugs, fiddling with his straw again, this time with long fingers that Mickey finds it nearly impossible to look away from. "For teaching me this stuff, not bitching about being stuck with the new guy all the time. I know I can't be your first choice for partner."

"Yeah, well, you are a real pain the ass," Mickey says, trying not to grin at Ian's indignant squawk.

"Shut the fuck up, asshole!" Ian shoves him lightly and Mickey chuckles a little. "I'm trying to be grateful over here!"

Mickey just shrugs. "It's fine, man. You're not the worst at this."

It's the understatement of the century, really. Other than not knowing some of the basics, Ian's...well, he's damn good at this shit. He doesn't bat an eye at things that have half the guys Mickey's worked with over the year puking their brains out, he's a good shot, and could kick most people's asses in hand to hand combat, too. Most importantly, Mickey trusts him, instinctively, almost reflexively, and in their line of work that's invaluable.

"That your way of saying I don't completely suck?" Ian teases, but his shoulders have slumped and the half smile he throws at Mickey doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Mickey elbows him. "That's my way of saying you're good, dipshit. I like getting stuck with your ass."

Ian's turns his whole body to face Mickey and he beams. "You like getting stuck with me?"

"Did I fucking stutter?"

Ian laughs, bright and a little too loud. Passing families glare at the two of them and hurry on. "You like me?"

"Not what i said." Ian just keeps smiling at him until Mickey cuffs him on the back of the head. "Are you gonna watch for our guy or you gonna stare at my pretty mug all day?"

"Yeah, yeah," Ian says, finally looking away. But he's still grinning anyway, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

^^^

It’s one night after a half-botched job that Mickey finally cracks.

They’d had to rough a couple guys up for payment, and one of them had a knife. Ian had to wrestle it away from him while Mickey slammed the other guy’s head into the wall. He’d heard Ian hiss, a sharp crack, then a loud thump. When he’d gotten his guy on the ground, he’d looked to see Ian examining his upper arm, a small, shallow cut there trickling blood. The guy Ian had been fighting is slumped at Ian’s feet, unconscious, the knife already tucked into Ian’s belt, a souvenir.

They’d both had too much energy after, buzzed in a way that only comes from an unsatisfying, too short fight. When they pass an empty alley, Ian catches Mickey’s gaze and gives him a razor sharp grin. Mickey feels blood pounding in his head and they look at each other square in the eye for about five seconds before Ian is throwing him back against a wall and Mickey is tugging him in, fumbling with his jeans. 

He turns his head to the side when Ian leans forward, Ian’s lips landing on his jaw instead of his mouth. To Ian’s credit, he redirects quick, starts biting and sucking Mickey’s neck instead, popping open the button of his jeans with one hand. When Mickey shoves him off and turns around, pushing his boxers down to his thighs, he catches Ian’s pleased, breathy laugh before Ian’s right back on him, hands rough on his hips, leaving dark bruises that Mickey would press his fingers against for days before they faded.

^^^

It becomes a routine, after that. Something to take the edge off when jobs leave them amped up and needing a release. Never at Mickey’s place or Ian’s, always in nondescript locations, after dark, in alleys, behind bars, twice in the backseat of Mickey’s car even though Ian bitched about his legs hurting from being so cramped up afterward.

Sometimes Mickey thinks about putting a stop to it, usually a few hours afterwards when he’s alone again and feels that familiar shame and guilt wash over him. He resolves that the last time would be _the last time_ , but then Ian will smile at him or tug on Mickey’s wrist to pull him into an alley, and he can never bring himself to say no.

^^^

Mickey and his crew run south side, but the north side is Svetlana’s territory. She’s odessa, has the market cornered on Chicago’s prostitution ring, and it always makes Mickey just a little uneasy to go meet with her. She’s a tough bitch, and even though they’re on perfectly good terms, Mickey knows she wouldn't hesitate to jam a knife in his throat if she thought it would suit her.

Anyway. He might be a pussy, but he feels a little relieved to have Ian there with him.

“You need girls. When?” Svet says as soon as they walk in. It’s one of the things Mickey likes about her: no chit-chat, straight to business.

“Saturday. Bosses coming in from Hong Kong.”

“What time?”

“6pm.”

“Til?”

“Til whenever they finish fucking ‘em, I don’t fucking know.”

“I give you til noon the next day if you pay upfront.”

Ian steps forward and hands her an envelope, then moves back to stand just behind Mickey’s shoulder. He does this weird bodyguard stance when they’re in front of other people like this. Mickey assumes it’s got something to do with that ROTC training Ian mentioned. Legs splayed, arms behind his back. It’s cute, but it also makes his biceps bulge in an intensely hot way that goes straight to Mickey’s dick.

Svetlana checks the envelope. Her eyes flick up.

“Good?” Mickey raises an eyebrow.

“Da. Who’s Ariel?” Svetlana jerks her chin at Ian like she’s annoyed Mickey’s brought someone, like she doesn’t have two hulking bodyguards with her.

“New guy,” Mickey raises his eyebrows when Svetlana looks him up and down.

“If you ever get tired of playing with guns, you come see me,” Svetlana tells Ian briskly. “I have customers who have things for redheads. Big, hard things.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Ian says, smirking. He flexes his arms a little, and Svetlana actually cracks a smile.

“Jesus fucking…” Mickey rolls his eyes and turns, smacking a hand against Ian’s chest. “Let’s fucking go.”

^^^

Thing is, Ian isn't just good with a knife, he’s downright deadly with one.

They’re about six months into Ian’s employment the first time a job goes more than a little sideways and they end up in a real balls-to-the-wall brawl. Mickey takes a punch to the face and gets thrown headfirst into a pillar before he pulls out his gun and dispatches two of the guys, real quick, pop pop. Turns to the third one, but Ian’s right there, quicker. Moves around the back of the guy and wraps an arm around his chest, sliding his knife into the back of the guy’s neck, just at the top of his spine. Guy doesn't even make a sound, barely twitches and Ian holds and holds and holds and drops, body thumping to the cement, red stain bleeding out.

When Mickey looks back up Ian’s cleaning his knife with the inside bottom corner of his shirt, carefully, meticulously. Ian gives him a quick nod, eyes flicking up.

Mickey puts his gun away. “Call the cleaner. Got us a car half a block down, we’ll take that and lay low at the house for the rest of the day.”

He watches Ian’s hands move, wiping that knife. His movements are certain, his fingers don't shake. Swipe up and down. Lift the blade and turn it to the light to check for missed spots. Palm it and slide it back into his sleeve, tucked there just in case, just til they get back.

Ian nods. “Good with me.”

His voice is as steady as his hands.

^^^

Mickey notices Ian’s vibrating once they get in the car. Adrenaline, probably. And not that it’s any of his business, but- 

“You take your pills today, man?”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Yes, mom. Just a little keyed up is all.”

Mickey nods, to Ian, to himself. Keeps his eyes on the road and makes a left. “You did good in there.”

He feels Ian’s eyes on him. “You’re bleeding, Mick.”

Mickey tongues the split on his bottom lip, tasting copper. “Yeah, a little. Had worse.”

“No, not that.” Mickey feels a hand in his hair, on his forehead just by his hairline. It stings, suddenly, sharply, and he hisses jerking away. “That. Might need stitches.”

“Fuck that. I got some glue at home should do the trick.”

Ian shakes his head. “Fuck _that_ , it’ll leave an ugly-ass scar. I can fix you up, got a good first aid kit back at mine. Take a right at the next light.”

Mickey glances at him, raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, jitters? I should trust you near my head with a fucking needle when you’re tweaking like you just snorted 3 lines of coke?”

Ian laughs and holds up one hand, flat, palm facing down. “Steady as a rock. Wouldn’t even be my first time playing nurse.”

“Kinky roleplay shit don’t count,” Mickey says, and Ian laughs at him for the rest of the drive.

^^^

“Alright, hold still. This is gonna hurt.” Ian hands Mickey the half full bottle of vodka to take a swig of first, then dumps about a shot’s worth over the cut on his head.

Mickey hisses through his teeth, grabs the bottle back and takes another swift gulp. “You sure you know what you’re doing, Nurse Ratched?”

The first aid kit is open on the kitchen table Mickey’s sitting at. Ian wasn’t kidding - it’s pretty extensive. After hunting through it, Ian had victoriously held up a small needle and thread, and, at Mickey’s raised eyebrows and crossed arms, had disappeared briefly and returned with the vodka.

Now Ian threads the needle deftly, long fingers quick and sure, and gives Mickey an unimpressed look. “Not gonna lobotomize you, Mick. Shouldn’t be more than a few stitches anyway.” He taps the bottle in Mickey’s hand. “Take another sip of that, then take a deep breath.”

He does as he’s told, and on the inhale he feels Ian push the needle into his skin.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck,” Mickey exhales, feeling like half his head is on fire. Ian huffs out a chuckle, but Mickey thinks it’s at least a little sympathetic. “Jesus fucking _ow_.”

“Sorry. Be over soon. Deep breath again.”

Mickey drinks some of the vodka instead. The burn going down his throat is a nice distraction, and the alcohol is starting to make the world a little fuzzy at the edges, but it’s not quite enough to distract him from the pain.

“Can you like - talk to me, or something?”

“Huh?”

“Distract me,” Mickey mumbles. “Tell me something.”

“Deep breath. What do you want me to talk about?” Ian asks, smiling a little. When Mickey lets out a grunt as the needle goes in again, he feels Ian’s thumb absently stroke his temple. It’s a weird gesture, but it feels nice anyway.

“Anything. I don’t care. Not feeling fucking picky right now,”  Mickey snaps, taking another long drink.

Ian’s quiet for a moment, and just as Mickey’s getting ready to growl  at him again, Ian starts. “I’m worried about my younger brother. I think he’s starting to get mixed in with some...not great people.”

“Liam?” Mickey asks, because of course he knows Ian’s brothers, because of course Ian told him, and of course Mickey remembered because he is a complete fucking idiot.

Ian chuckles. “No, god, he’s the baby. Well, he’s like 6 now, not really a baby anymore, I guess. No, Carl.” Ian’s thumb does the sweeping motion on Mickey’s head again and Mickey braces himself for another pinch. It was starting to get less painful, though that was probably the alcohol kicking in. “He did a stint in juvie last year, just got out and now he thinks he’s this tough shit. Got himself some new friends, won’t listen to Fi, or anyone. Pretty sure he’s dealing.”

“Kinda hypocritical, isn’t it?” Mickey asks, and Ian glances down at him, frowning. “I mean, considering your line of work ain’t exactly boy scout material. Maybe he’s just following in big brother’s footsteps.”

Mickey feels Ian’s hands still on his head, hears Ian’s small sigh before he starts moving again. “I don’t want my family anywhere near this stuff though. It’s dangerous, they don’t need...they can do better. Are better.”

“And you’re not?”

“It’s just a job for me, Mick. It helps my family. I’m good at it.”

“No argument there,” Mickey mutters. “Hey, tonight - that the first time you ever killed someone?”

Ian’s silent for a moment. “Yeah.’

“You okay?”

“Well my head’s not split open, unlike some people here,” Ian says lightly, and Mickey snorts. “I’m good. Really.”

The room’s starting to spin a little even though he’s not moving. He might have overdone it with the vodka, he thinks, as he looks down at the empty bottle. He can’t even feel his head now, and if Ian is still sewing his skin shut he certainly can’t feel that.

Sometime later Mickey opens his eyes - when had he closed them? - to Ian’s breath on his skin. He’s leaning forward, biting the thread with his teeth to sever it.

“There.” He steps back, surveying Mickey, and Mickey takes that as permission to move, tilting his head up to look at Ian, who smirks down at him. “Back in one piece. Hold your applause.”

Ian leans in again, Mickey guesses to inspect his work, but he doesn’t get that far because Mickey yanks him forward by the collar and kisses him.

Ian lets out a surprised yelp that melts into a whine, hands coming up to frame Mickey’s face. Then he’s kissing Mickey back, mouths opening under each other, licking Mickey’s teeth and tongue until Mickey’s head is spinning even more.

“Fuck, Mick,” Ian pants, when they pull apart. Ian’s bent awkwardly over him, but instead of straightening up he just leans their foreheads together, taking care to avoid the stitches, bracing his hands on Mickey’s thighs.

“M’little drunk,” Mickey confesses. Ian huffs a laugh in his face, and Mickey’s aware that his eyes are starting to slip shut again.

“We should go to bed,” Ian says quietly, and Mickey grunts in agreement. “You should stay.”

“Yeah, ok. I’ll take the couch.” Mickey shifts and Ian backs off so he can stand.

“Don’t have a couch,” Ian says with an apologetic smile. “But the bed’s a queen.”

“There’s a joke in there,” Mickey says, and Ian nods.

“I’m too tired to make it though,” Ian says, ducking his head to kiss Mickey again, quick and soft.

Together, they stumble over to the mattress. Ian ignores Mickey’s protests and helps him maneuver off his shirt (“if you rip your stitches out now, so help me god Mickey I am not fixing you up again”) and jeans (“ok this I don't have a good excuse for, I just like getting into your pants”) before he strips off his own, and they both crawl into the bed.

Mickey lays down on his back and shuts his eyes, feeling his whole body relax when Ian lays down next to him, arm thrown over him with his hand splayed open on Mickey’s chest, right over his heart.

^^^

Ian takes advantage after that, kissing Mickey at every opportunity. Quick ones, tugging him in before they get out of the car; long, slow, deep explorations when they have all the time in the world at night. Mickey thinks he should mind it more than he does - the trouble is, he doesn’t really think about anything at all where Ian’s concerned.

^^^

One of Terry’s top guys washes up on shore one stormy Thursday, throat slit from ear to ear. The funeral that takes place that weekend is held in the Milkovich house itself, and it takes over 5 hours for everyone to filter in and pay their respects. Jaime tells Mickey Terry wants him there, and Mickey brings Ian because if he didn’t, Ian probably would have shown up anyway. At least this way, they can stand together under the guise of watching the front door and making sure no one unsavory walks in.

“See that guy over there?” Mickey jerks his head toward the living room.

“That one?” Ian straight up points at a hulking mass standing by the casket, seven or eight gold chains around his neck, a face like stone, drink in his hand looking comically small.

“No, man, the guy next to him,” Mickey says, but Ian just squints, frowning. With a sigh Mickey grabs his chin and redirects his head down and to the right. “The short guy, there.” He ignores how warm Ian’s skin is and lets go when Ian nods.

“What about him?” Ian glances back at Mickey.

“Remember when you asked who the cleaner was?” Mickey smirks when Ian’s eyes go wide.

“ _That_ guy?” Ian turns back to Mickey with an incredulous expression. “He’s the cleaner? He’s like, half my size! How does he even lift the bodies, how -”

“Fuck if I know, but he’s the best in the business.”

“Yeah, but _how_ -”

“Leverage, mostly,” a smooth voice next to them says. “Dollies and tarps. Lotta Windex. And cars with deceptively big trunks.”

When they both look up the guy is standing there, sipping his drink with raised eyebrows. Ian wasn’t kidding, he was a short guy, with a face that looked too young and almost pretty. Too innocent, at least for their line of work, anyway.

“Jack." The guy holds a hand out to Ian and Ian shakes it, dumbfounded expression on his face.

“Ian.” 

“Good to meet you.” He claps Mickey on the back. “Sorry for your loss, man. Rough way to go out.”

Mickey nods his thanks. “Appreciate you coming all the way over.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“So you really...clean?” Ian says, because the kid has no chill at all. “You...personally?”

“Oh god, no,” Jack scrunches up his nose in disgust. “No, no, I have a whole crew for that. I’m more of a manager.”

“Steve!” Someone from across the room calls, arm beckoning.

Jack turns. “Be right there! Sorry gentlemen, bit of business to take care of.”

They watch him go, then Ian leans towards Mickey. “I thought he said his name was Jack.”

Mickey shrugs. “Dunno, man. He told me his name was Jimmy when I met him.”

It’s another hour before they can head to the gravesite. After the burial, the reception is held in a bar down the street.

“This is a strip club,” Ian says when they walk in.

“Hey, it _has_ a bar.” Mickey grins.

“Feel kind of sacrilege, doesn’t it?” Ian says, tilting his head at one of the strippers upside down on a pole at the dinky little center platform, her legs spread in a wide V.

Mickey just shakes his head, going up to the bar to grab a few drinks, figuring Ian will follow. He’s just sat down and gotten the bartender’s attention when a girl sidles up to him, fingers drifting over his shoulder. When he glances over, he sees Jaime behind her, with another girl on his arm. Both girls are dressed skimpily, heavily made up and over perfumed.

“It’s a lot cozier in the back, baby. Got a private room with our name on it.” She flips her hair, leaning over to give Mickey a better view of her rack, and winks.

“Uh, thanks, but I’m good.” Mickey shifts in his seat, takes a sip of his beer.

“They’re a gift,” Jamie says, pointedly. The _it would be rude to refuse and you don’t want to see what happens to rude people_ is implied. “From Terry. He made a point of saying this one was for you.”

“Of course,” Mickey mutters. He glances over, catches Ian’s eye for a second before looking away.

“C’mon, baby,” the girl says, tugging on his hand. “I can make you feel real good, you’ll see.”

Mickey stands, clearing his throat. The bartender places a shot in front of him and he downs it quickly. The burn only lasts for a second, but it makes his eyes water just a bit. His chest feels tighten and he takes a deep breath to try and open it up. The girl tugs on his hand again.

“Don’t wait for me,” he says, directing it at Ian without looking at his face. When Ian is silent, he lets himself be led away.

He doesn’t look back.

^^^

An hour later Mickey finally manages to leave, slipping out the back into an alley. He finds Ian there smoking a cigarette.

“Told you you didn’t have to wait for me, man.” Mickey shrugs his jacket on. Fucking Chicago weather, it’s only October and it’s freezing.

Ian sniffs, still leaning against the brick wall, blowing smoke rings. “Didn’t think you’d take so long.”

“She wouldn’t shut up,” Mickey grumbles, reaching for Ian’s cigarette. “I swear she told me her whole fucking life story.

Ian hums. “Was that before or after you fucked her?”

“I don’t know, both? During?” Ian’s silent and when Mickey looks at him his jaw is clenched. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem? No problem. I love freezing my hands off in the cold when you get jerked off by some whore.” Ian stubs his cigarette out on the wall.

“Could’ve stayed inside and fucked somebody yourself,” Mickey points out, frowning.

Ian laughs, but it’s harsh and strangled. “No, I really couldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

“Because -” Ian faces Mickey but cuts himself off. His eyes search Mickey’s entire face, and Mickey feels heat start to pool low in his belly in a way it hasn’t all night. He glances down and when he looks back up Ian is suddenly right there, hands on his neck and waist, licking his way into Mickey’s mouth.

There’s always that tipping point, with Ian, unspoken. One second they’re looking at each other and the next Mickey is boneless, moaning into Ian’s mouth, a switch flipped. Mickey’s a little afraid that it’s going to start to happen every time they lock eyes.

“Turn around,” Ian growls, not waiting for Mickey to comply, flipping him over and pressing him hard against the alley wall.

“Funeral’s turn you on there, Firecrotch?” Mickey’s grin wobbles. His cheek scrapes the wall and he arches his back.

“Shut up.” Ian’s hand tightens on the back of Mickey’s neck, and Mickey can hear his belt and gun clatter to the ground. He yanks Mickey’s head back to kiss him before shoving two fingers into his mouth. “Suck.”

Mickey does, swirling his tongue around them and wetting them, moaning when Ian shoves his pants and boxers down and palms Mickey’s ass with his free hand.

“Gonna fuck you,” Ian says, reclaiming his fingers, spreading Mickey’s ass, biting Mickey’s neck as he works him open.

“Yeah,” Mickey pants, pushing back, trying to get him deeper. “Stop fucking talking and just do it.”

“Thought I told you to shut up.” Ian shoves another finger in roughly, stretching him, and Mickey keens. He feels his knees shake moments later when Ian finally pulls out his fingers and pushes his cock in. It’s rough and not quite slick enough and so _perfect_ that Mickey’s eyes water.

Ian yanks on Mickey’s hair again, bringing him back to kiss along his jaw. “Fucking hate that you still smell like her.”

Mickey fumbles to pump his own dick, breath hitching when Ian bites down on his neck. He tries to swallow down a moan but feels a sharp tug on his hair.

“Uh-uh,” Ian whispers. “Let that out, wanna hear you.”

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes out, moaning loudly when Ian hits him _just right, yes, there, more, please._

Ian mouths at his ear, _c’mon, c’mon_ , and that combined with the unrelenting pace of Ian’s hips snapping behind him does it. Mickey groans and comes, spilling into his fist. Ian keeps thrusting as Mickey shakes and shudders until he’s spent, only upright because of the wall and Ian’s vise grip on his hips. He twists around to kiss Ian again, hard, once he has his breath back, and Ian moans into his mouth as his hips jerk then still as he comes.

“Come back home with me,” Ian breathes into his mouth, and Mickey’s already nodding.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.”

He tells himself it’s just this once, just for one night, but even he doesn’t believe that.

^^^

Ian’s good with a gun, and deadly with a knife, but Mickey finds him most dangerous first thing in the morning.

He wraps himself around Mickey like the world’s warmest, heaviest blanket in the night. Mickey’s suddenly waking up with a goofy grin spreading on his face, Ian’s solid warmth against his back, thinking horrifying things like how much he’d like to wake up every morning like this.

Just around when Mickey realizes that all this feels a little to domestic to be ok, Ian wakes up a little, making sleepy little noises when Mickey shifts. He rubs his nose into the back of Mickey’s neck, arm tightening, holding Mickey closer. Sometimes he slides his hand further down, starts stroking Mickey’s dick maddeningly slowly until Mickey’s squirming in his grip, panting and begging. Sometime he just murmurs into Mickey’s neck and tells him to go back to sleep, that it’s too early to be thinking about getting up yet, and Mickey settles back and actually listens. Sometimes he just sighs, resigned to letting Mickey get up, disappointment coming off him in waves, and Mickey pretends to have fallen back to sleep so he has an excuse to stay in bed with him, and his heart clenches when he feels Ian smile press into his shoulder. 

Mickey’s fucking terrified of him. 

^^^

“You ever think about getting out?” Ian asks one night.

They’d just fucked in the back seat of Mickey’s car, and Mickey was laying on Ian’s chest, sleepy and sated, Ian’s fingers drifting up and down Mickey’s spine. Mickey’d been on the verge of dozing off when Ian spoke.

“Out?” Mickey mutters, stifling a yawn.

“Yeah. Out of all this.” Ian gestures with one hand before resuming rubbing Mickey’s back. “Leaving this life behind, going legit.”

“Sometimes, yeah.” The late hour and Mickey’s mood make him a little more honest. “Don’t know what I would do though. And it doesn’t really matter.”

“Why’s that?”

“Terry,” Mickey grunts. “He’d never let any of us leave. Family business, in this for life.”

Ian tenses, the way he always does when Terry’s name comes up. Mickey expects Ian to answer, but finally Ian relaxes again, hums thoughtfully, fingers trailing up Mickey’s neck, scratching through the hair at the base of his skull. Mickey falls asleep like that, lulled there by the rise and fall of Ian’s chest.

^^^

Mickey knows something’s wrong the afternoon Ian doesn’t answer his phone, because Ian always, always, always answers.

They were supposed to meet at 1, Mickey having dropped Ian at his apartment the night before. When 1:30 comes, he’s a little pissed, but then, Ian’s run late before. Then 2 comes and goes, and Ian doesn't pick up when Mickey calls him again, and suddenly Mickey’s heart is pounding in his throat. He checks with Mandy first, then Jaime, and finally Tony and Iggy, but no one’s seen him all day.

“Think he ran?” Jaime asks.

 _From what?_  Mickey thinks. “Nah, he’d never leave his family.”

“You check his place yet?”

Ian’s not there, either, when Mickey pounds on the apartment door first then finally picks the lock. The apartment is dark, nothing out of place. The fridge is stocked, like Ian had gone out on a grocery run recently. He tries Ian’s phone again and it goes straight to voicemail.

He doesn't think to check the house until the next day, after a night of chain smoking and restless snatches of sleep. Ian wasn't lying; he really had grown up only a few streets over from where Mickey still lives. The house looks old, grimy in a way that makes Mickey feel at ease, cozy in a way that makes his shoulders curl up near his ears. When he knocks, a girl a few years younger than him answers the door, a shock of red hair that matches Ian's so exactly Mickey damn near swallows his tongue.

She hasn't seen Ian though, not since last week when he came over for dinner. Her forehead pinches when she asks who Mickey is, why he’s looking, if Ian’s ok, and the expression is so Ian that Mickey lies and tells her Ian’s probably fine. Says he's a friend. His voice only shakes a little.

She frowns at him and Mickey hears Ian’s voice like he’s whispering in his ear. _Debbie’s so stubborn; she gets her mind made up about something and never lets up. Gets into it with Fiona a lot. She’s smart, too._

He tries Ian’s phone again when he's back in the car, and when he gets voicemail he closes his eyes and presses his forehead to the steering wheel.

“You better be okay, you fucker,” Mickey says, after the beep. “I’m not coming back here and explaining to all your fucking brothers and sisters why you ain't at the next family game night or whatever it is you Gallaghers do. Call me the fuck back.”

He just hangs up when his phone rings, and his pulse spikes as he fumbles to answer.

“Your boy’s at the house,” Jaime says, and Mickey goes boneless with relief. “Wops picked him up yesterday morning, roughed him up. Think it was just some low level guys blowing off steam, a retaliation. You remember the hit on Clemenzi a few weeks back?”

Mickey grips the phone so hard he hears the plastic grind. “He ok?”

“He’ll live, but he doesn't look too hot. Mandy’s patching him up now.”

“I’ll be there in five.”

‘Not too hot’ was the understatement of the fucking century as far as Mickey’s concerned, when he bursts into the house and Iggy jerks a thumb to Mandy’s room. Ian’s unconscious, laid out on his back in the bed while Mandy cleans a nasty looking slice on his right leg. She looks up when Mickey comes in and Mickey doesn't have time to school his features. Whatever she sees on his face makes her eyes turn soft and sad.

The whole left side of Ian’s face is one big bruise, eye swollen shut and crusted blood at his hairline. There’s blood in patches on his t-shirt and a brace already fashioned around one of his wrists. The cut Mandy’s cleaning on his thigh looks deep.

Jamie’s behind him, saying something that Mickey can't hear over the ringing in his ears. He wants to vomit, he wants to kill someone. Mandy reaches out and circles her fingers around his wrist, and he looks down at where she’s smeared some blood on his skin. Ian’s blood. He looks at her and realizes she's her mouth is moving; she tightens her grip and he tunes back in. 

“He’ll be fine, Mickey.”

Mickey nods once jerkily before pulling away, shouldering past Jaime, and just manages to make it to the bathroom before he throws up the entire contents of his stomach.

^^^

Three days later, there’s a knock on his door.

“Thought you were supposed to be resting,” Mickey grumbles, stepping aside to let Ian in anyway. Ian’s still limping, favoring his right side, and it makes Mickey’s whole chest ache.

“Needed to talk to you.” Ian leans against the arm of the couch.

“You want something to drink?” Ian shakes his head. “Eat? You look skinnier than fucking Mandy these days.”

Ian ignores the jab. He watches Mickey walk from the kitchen to the  living room and back again.

“I need to talk to you,” Ian repeats.

“Will you at least sit the fuck down then? Looking like you’re gonna fall over is making me nervous, I swear to - ”

“Mickey.” Ian grabs his arm when he tries to walk past. “Just fucking stop and listen for a second.”

“Alright, fuck, what?” Mickey stops in front of Ian, raising his eyebrows. ‘What you have to say so bad it couldn’t wait until you could walk right again, huh?”

Ian opens and closes his mouth. His hand tightens on Mickey’s elbow for a second. This close, Mickey can see all the bruises on him, the way his eye is still a little swollen, the new scar on his jawline.

“I didn’t think I was going to come back,” Ian rasps out, finally, voice suddenly rough and choked. Mickey feels his mouth fall open a little at the sudden admission, the way Ian’s eyes have gone a little wet. “I really thought that was it, that they’d have their fun then fucking - fucking dump me in the river. I thought I was dead already.”

Mickey takes a shaky breath. “Ian - “

“And all I could think,” Ian swallows, “all I could think about was you. That I might not - that I never told you, and now I wouldn’t get to. I mean, my family, I knew this was a risk, taking this job. Knew I might end up at the bottom of Lake Michigan one day and someone would have to tell them. But the thought of you not knowing how I -”

“Stop,” Mickey says, feeling his stomach plummet. “Just-”

Ian steps even closer. “Was so afraid I was never gonna get back to you and you’d never know.”

He raises his other hand, curls it over Mickey’s jaw. His eyes are huge, Mickey stares at the bruise under the right one, the cut on his cheekbone.

“Ian, don’t -”

“Mickey, I - “

“ _Don’t_.”

“I love you.”

“...fuck.” Mickey feels all his breath leave his body at once. He can feel himself shaking all over, but he leans forward anyway, reeling Ian in by the back of his neck, kissing him hard, all teeth, and Ian moans into it.

They move towards the bedroom with Mickey half supporting Ian, and Mickey's world reduces itself to fragments. Clothes off, Ian scrambling for lube, wincing when he twists, starting on Mickey with two fingers right away, Mickey’s fists in the sheets, afraid he’s going to just fly apart, thinks he might if not for Ian’s other hand pressing his hips down, grounding him. Ian. Three fingers. Mickey babbling, now, please, now, he’s ready, he’s good. Ian, pressing in, thrusting. Eyes locked on Mickey’s looking panicked, too wide, terrified and humbled and awe struck and Mickey has never had anyone look at him like that before. Wonders what his own face looks like because Ian slows to a stop, hovering over him, and Mickey feels the words pushing the back of his teeth, knows he’s about to speak even before his mind registers what he’s going to say.

“You too,” Mickey breathes, glancing away, eyes on the floor, bed, wall, chair, clock, sheets, Ian. Ian. Always coming back to Ian. “Love you too.”

Ian’s eyes widen even more. He drops his head and buries his face in Mickey’s neck, pushing in even deeper and making both of them groan. Ian reaches between them to get a hand on Mickey’s dick.

Neither of them last long after that. Ian starts up a rhythm again with his hand and hips and Mickey’s orgasm rolls over him, and after they curl up next to each other on the damp sheets, two question marks nestled together.

^^^

Iggy calls first thing on a Wednesday.

“What?” Mickey groans, rubbing a hand down his face. He checks the time. “Ig, it’s 5am, somebody better be dead and it better be somebody who matters.”

Iggy says something then. Mickey frowns. “What?”

He says it again, and Mickey makes him repeat it twice more before Iggy threatens to kick his ass through the phone. Then Mickey doesn't say anything for long enough that Iggy curses a blue streak and hangs up on him.

^^^

Mickey nearly breaks down the door to Ian’s apartment. He’s a little drunk but it doesn’t matter, ding dong the bastard’s dead motherfucker, Mickey could fucking fly.

“Mick, what - “ Ian starts, when he opens the door and Mickey stumbles in.

“Terry’s dead.”

“What?” Ian blinks. It’s funny, Mickey had expected a bigger reaction. More surprise. “How? He got whacked, or..” Ian trails off when Mickey starts laughing.

“‘Got whacked’, listen to you, still think you’re goddamn Don Corleone or some shit.” Mickey snorts. “Yeah he got whacked. Job went south. Don’t even know what he was fucking doing there alone. Guess it doesn’t matter. Jaime said he’s taking care of the guys that did it.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian says, all puppy eyes. Mickey opens his mouth to tell him to shut the fuck up, but to his horror he find his eyes are burning.

“Fuck.” He scrubs his face. “I’m not actually - I’m fucking _happy_ he’s dead, don’t know why I’m acting like a bitch.”

“Still your dad.” Ian shrugs. “C’mon, think Lip left some beer in the fridge last time he was over.”

“S’fucking weird,” Mickey says, a few beers later, well and truly drunk by now and starting the feel a little drowsy. He hadn’t slept since Iggy woke him up this morning with that phone call. “Kind of thought that fucker would outlive us all.”

“Well, you know,” Ian lifts one shoulder in a shrug, thumbnail picking at the label on his beer bottle. He’d been nursing that same one for the past hour or so. “He must have made enemies right? I could see someone wanting him gone for good.”

And there’s something...something about the way Ian says it. Carefully. Not looking at Mickey. A cool blankness across his face, the way he looked when Mickey had shot a guy in front of him. Didn’t flinch, just glanced at the blood splatter on his shoes. Or the way he looked that time months ago, jamming a knife into someone’s neck.

Thinking about that day reminds Mickey about the conversation they’d had after, when Ian had said his brother was getting involved with some bad people. Mickey had never asked what bad people, exactly, had he? He wonders, now, if he should have, he wonders if maybe Ian had gotten over not wanting his family involved in his life, had maybe asked his brother for a favor, he wonders -

Ian glances up and meets his gaze, eyes hot and dark and steady.

Mickey’s just drunk. Nothing like that happened, and if it did, Mickey would never, ever ask.

That night he rides Ian hard, thighs burning, and leans down to bite Ian’s neck as he cries out and comes, shaking apart in his arms. They lay there together a long time before falling asleep.

^^^

Nobody cries at the funeral, not at the house or when they watch the body go into the ground, though Mandy does grab Mickey’s hand then. Certainly no one cries at the reception.

“Surprised it’s not a strip club,” Ian says, when they’re buying shots at a bar down the block from their house.

“Yeah, dad would probably have preferred that, but fuck him.” Mandy clinks her glass to Ian’s then downs it. “Fucker’s dead now, he doesn’t get a say.”

“Cheers to that,” Ian says, throwing Mickey a small smile and handing him a glass.

When their fingers brush, Ian holds his hand there for a long beat, and Mickey can feel heat creep up under his collar.

Ian’s face is bright, full of promise, and Mickey, damn him, he can’t look away.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Ian sings in the fic is, shockingly, "Walk or Ride" by The Ditty Bops, from an album I encourage everyone to listen to because holy shit did it remind me of Ian/Mickey: The Early Years.
> 
> Now I can FINALLY go read the other shameless mob AUs...


End file.
